


Sasquatches, Incidental Snowstorms, and Horny Sorority Girls

by ElleCC



Series: The First Two Years [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC/pseuds/ElleCC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The joke goes something like this: Four college kids, a bunch of snowbunnies, and a hunter walk into a ski lodge...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sasquatches, Incidental Snowstorms, and Horny Sorority Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glovered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/gifts).



> For checkthemargin's [First Two Years comment fic meme](http://checkthemargins.livejournal.com/56985.html), written for [a prompt from glovered](http://checkthemargins.livejournal.com/56985.html?thread=1025945#t1025945) that involved a hoodie, a ski trip, hot chocolate, and some flirting.

"Aren't you gonna fucking freeze, dude?" Brady asks. "It's only like ten degrees out."

Sam looks down at himself, his ratty navy hoodie and jeans. He shrugs and stuffs his wallet into his pocket. "I'm good. Long-sleeve underneath."

"It doesn't even fucking fit, you behemoth." Brady punches his shoulder on the way by. "And if you end up sick, don't expect me to fucking wait on you."

Sam flips him off over his shoulder, but inside, his chest aches. He and Brady hit it off immediately at the mixer in their dorm last semester, but it still took Sam the better part of two weeks to realize why. He's never mentioned to Brady how much he reminds Sam of his brother—mostly because he's neglected to mention to anyone that he actually _has_ a brother. That would require he talk about his family, and that's something Sam doesn't do. No matter how many questions people ask.

He rubs a hand down his stomach, fingers a hole near the intersection of zipper and hem. It _is_ a little snug now, even more so than it was five months ago when he arrived in Palo Alto. It doesn't even cover his hands anymore like it did three years ago when he stole it from Dean’s laundry just before his brother and dad left for a hunt. Sam thought it was a fair trade for being left alone for a weekend, and if Dean ever noticed or cared, he never said anything, not even that night at the bus station. Sam’s glad for it, even if he mostly pulls the hoodie out on nights when he’s feeling the farthest removed from his brother, and tonight’s definitely one of those nights. Practically snowed in at a ski lodge with a bunch of rich kids, nothing to worry about except whether or not all the trails will be open tomorrow. Yeah, this is just about the last place on Earth Sam can picture Dean, and it kills him a little inside, how much that makes him miss his brother. 

He tries to shake it off. Fun, they’re here for fun. _Vacation._ Back to the grind in less than a week. He can go back to missing Dean when he’s back at school and in his own bed. Maybe he’ll even give him a call next week, or send him a text, see if he’s anywhere near California. It’s been too long.

It's with amusement that Sam watches as Brady, Jack, and Ben all don parkas and gloves and knitted caps before they head out toward the lodge; he wonders on the way, just vague thoughts spinning around his head, why he _isn't_ cold, but chalks it up to having to camp in near-freezing woods half a dozen times by the time he was sixteen. He just has a higher tolerance for severe weather than most, that's all.

The lodge is packed. It's winter break in Tahoe, the last week of vacation for half the colleges in the country—of course it would be. And the huge storm in the middle of the night probably means not many people ventured away from the resort today. He glances toward the bar, wondering if he's gonna have to break out a fake ID, but given that the bartenders are sliding beers and rail drinks toward girls who look about fifteen, he's thinking no.

"Winchester, help me grab drinks," Brady calls.

Sam nods, and he and Brady break from the other two guys, who head for the huge fireplace that’s surrounded by girls.

He had reservations about hanging at the lodge tonight (about the whole damn trip, actually), but three beers in and Sam's having a good time. The girls are from University of Miami are bright and funny despite their exceptionally snug clothing. Sam's experience with college girls is still fairly limited, but he's seen enough chicks eyeing up his brother to understand the kind of look he's getting right now from a girl named Hailey. When he heads to the bar for another round, it’s not much of a surprise when she follows.

"So, full-ride at Stanford, huh?" she asks from her perch on the barstool next to him. "That's pretty impressive. What are you studying?"

The bartender stops in front of them, and when Hailey orders a hot cocoa, Sam does, too, blaming it on nostalgia. A glance over his shoulder shows the guys aren't even paying attention to him, so he figures he can spend a few minutes chatting with Hailey before he gets the beers and heads back.

"History with a minor in Latin."

Hailey's eyebrows rise. "Latin, wow. That's supposed to be really hard. Did you take it in high school instead of French or Spanish?"

Sam almost tells the truth, but what kind of freak learns Latin from his high-school-dropout big brother when he's thirteen? "Yeah. I like languages."

She sips at her cocoa, eyes on Sam. She's cute: big blue eyes, bleach blonde hair, smooth skin. Her sweater is low-cut, and there's a lot of tan chest on display. Something stirs in Sam's stomach. He'd really like to believe it has to do with her cleavage and not her freckles.

"Do you know any others?" she asks. 

"Spanish, conversational French, basic Greek, some Hebrew, some German, a tiny bit of Cantonese." When her mouth starts to fall open a little, he tacks on, "I, uh, have a thing for them, I guess. They've always been pretty easy for me."

"I guess so! That's so cool. I could barely get through Spanish in high school and like eighty percent of Miami speaks it as a first language." She giggles and rolls her eyes; Sam warms up to her a little more and turns all the way toward her. He's always appreciated a girl who can laugh at herself. Some of the chicks at Stanford are so fucking full of themselves.

He grins at her. "Eh, some brains just don't do as well with languages. English is hard enough. How about you? What're you studying?"

"Sociology, I think. With a focus on deviant behavior."

Of course. Sam nearly laughs out loud. He considers asking if she needs any case studies for a paper. "What'll you do with that?" he asks instead.

She answers, and Sam nods and smiles and asks questions. It's been maybe ten minutes since they came over here, his cocoa's mostly gone, and Hailey's knee is brushing against his. He's starting to think about bringing her back to their suite and then wonders how that'll work if Brady does the same thing with the brunette he’s been chatting up. He and Pete have a system for their room involving a rubber band around the doorknob, but he and Brady haven't worked out anything like that.

Sam is abruptly jostled from his thoughts when someone runs into him from behind. He catches himself on the bar before he can end up face first in Hailey's lap. 

She grins at him as she curves a hand around his arm. 

"Sorry," he says, straightening a little. "Someone bumped me." He half glares over his shoulder but doesn't bother to turn all the way around. It's still fucking packed in here—it was bound to happen.

"It's fine, Sam," she says. Her expression suggests it was _more_ than fine. 

Instead of letting go, her fingers trail down the arm of his hoodie until they reach his hand, then they slide up under the cuff. He hopes she doesn't notice it's a good inch too short for his arm. Fingers rubbing lightly on the inside of his wrist, she leans a bit to the side, looking behind Sam. He could be imagining it, but he's pretty sure she makes a little humming noise a couple seconds later, but he _knows_ he's not making up the look on her face: it's the same one she was giving _him_ over by the fire. Sam isn't sure if it's irritation or relief he feels. Thank god Dean’s not here—he’d never hear the end of not being able to hold this girl’s attention.

She jerks back, expression a little guilty, when Sam shifts and pulls his arm back.

"So," she starts, "how long are you guys here?"

Sam opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, a voice to his right says, "Looks like someone could use another drink."

Sam's entire body—really, the whole fucking thing—stiffens, but he forces himself to keep breathing, keeps his face perfectly blank. He’d consider that he’s drunk and having auditory hallucinations, except that voice is never perfect in his head; he’s never able to perfectly capture his brother’s gruffness or inflections. It’s _impossible_ , although by now, Sam should really know better than to doubt the impossible.

He and Hailey simultaneously turn their heads. Sam doesn’t have to see Hailey’s face to know this is the guy she was making eyes at behind Sam’s back; she’s vibrating.

"Hmm, maybe." Hailey picks up her mug and peers into it. "Yup, empty!"

Dean, _his Dean_ , chuckles. Sam has enough time to note that Dean looks even more out of place in this ritzy ski lodge that Sam does, before Dean leans forward, forcing Hailey and Sam apart, and flags down the bartender.

"A beer, a cocoa for the pretty girl, and"—he pauses to glance at Sam's mug—"one of those chocolate martini things like she had." He points down the bar, behind Sam. The bartender nods, and Dean steps back, barely, and grins at Sam. "Hope that's okay. Looks like the sorta thing a guy like you might like."

Ordinarily, this is where Sam would tell his brother to fuck off or maybe take a half-hearted swing at him, but he hasn't decided how to play this. Dean's smirking at him, but Sam's thinking if he hasn't acknowledged they know each other, he isn't going to unless Sam does first.

Sam pushes his mug away, tries to collect himself. _Just Dean,_ he thinks to himself. Just Dean. Just because he hasn't seen him in three months, not since he showed up long enough between hunts to grab lunch and press Sam up against the side of the library for ten minutes, doesn't mean his heart should be racing like it is. Or his palms sweating. Or his whole fucking body buzzing.

"Yeah, that's good," Sam finally says. "I like beer."

Hailey giggles. Dean's grin widens. He looks from Sam to Hailey and back; his forehead creases. "Am I interrupting something?"

Hailey eyes Sam. She licks her glossy lips, glances at Dean, smiles at Sam. Her knee’s pressing hard against the inside of his thigh, and he’s not all that shocked when she reaches out and hooks a finger in the pocket of Dean's jacket. "Not really," she says. "We have room for one more."

Sam didn't know it was possible for Dean to look even more fucking smug. He doesn't move when Dean puts a hand on his knee, and Hailey looks absolutely delighted.

“What’s your name?” she asks. “This is Sam, and I’m Hailey.”

“Dean,” his brother says. “Nice to meet ya, Hailey.” He leans in closer, sliding his hand up Sam’s leg. “You, too, Sammy.”

“Sammy! Oh my god, that’s so cute.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Dean’s hand inches a couple more inches north. Sam slams his own on top of it. Hailey, already practically glowing, shines a little brighter when she notices.

“Um, you know, I have to go to the little girl’s room real quick. Save my seat?” She glances from one of them to the other. Dean gives her an appreciative glance when she rubs her entire body against his as she squeezes past him. Then he waits about two seconds to slide onto her barstool.

"Nice sweatshirt," is the first thing he says.

Sam ignores him and the flare of embarrassment. "What're you doing here, Dean?"

He drains half his beer. "Would you believe me if I said bigfoot?

"Uh, no. Bigfoot doesn't exist."

Dean's grin is slow and far dirtier than it should be, given the topic of conversation. Sam's stomach does one of those slow rolls it's been doing around Dean for the past five years. "Try telling that to nine feet of mangy, crusty giant."

Sam blinks. "Did you—"

Dean jerks his chin. "Yup. This morning. The skiers are safe. I shoulda been out of here, but then this shit happened before I woke up." He waves upward, glaring at the ceiling. 

“So you didn't—” Sam stops himself. _Fucking pathetic._ There's no reason he should feel disappointed right now, that Dean isn't here because of him. It’s good enough that he happened to stumble into the lodge Sam happened to be in. All the ski lodges in all the world, right?

"Well." Dean clears his throat. He takes a long drink of his beer and raises a hand at the passing bartender for a new one. “I might have already been in the area when the sasquatch thing came up. Maybe." He doesn't meet Sam's eyes. Sam's pretty sure the warmth in his stomach doesn't have anything to do with his stupid chocolate martini.

Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye and lifts his glass, but before he can finish it off, Sam's grabbing his chin, turning his head. And though maybe he should care because his friends aren't more than thirty feet away and none of them know this about him—not _this_ this, his dirty six-foot secret, but that he's into guys at all—he decides _fuck it_ and presses his mouth to Dean's.

Dean's still for all of a second before he tilts his head and parts his lips. He tastes like beer and himself and now chocolate from Sam’s mouth, and Sam's sure it's the best thing he’s ever tasted. When he knows Dean's not going to pull away, he drops his hand to slide it inside his brother's jacket and grip his hip. He's only kissed one girl since he left for Stanford, a little brunette at a frat party two months go, and he can still remember how delicate she was under his hands. Nothing like Dean's always felt: solid, unbreakable, _real_. A little of the ache Sam's been feeling since he climbed on that bus in August eases.

Dean wraps a hand around Sam's bicep. Their tongues slide together. Sam wonders if his barstool would hold his brother’s weight on top of his own.

He's about to try to find out when someone giggles. Hailey. Dean groans against his mouth, but they slowly separate. Very reluctantly, at least on Sam's part. 

"Don't stop on account of me!" Hailey says. She's holding up one of those fancy digital cameras, aiming it at them. "I only got one!"

"Uh, one?" Sam asks.

Hailey pouts and drops her hand. "Yeah, for the scavenger hunt!" She fishes through her pockets for a second, then produces a piece of gold paper. She thrusts it at Sam. "Number fifteen!"

Sam and Dean lean in at the same time to read it. Sam has to concentrate on not pressing his nose against his brother's neck and inhaling deeply.

The top of the page reads "Tri-Delt Winter Break Scavenger Hunt!" in big letters. Below the title is a list of thirty things, and some are crossed out, such as number one: _A guy wearing a bra._

"Fifteen," Dean mumbles. "Fifteen." His finger traces down the numbers and stops next to "#15." There's no line through it.

_Two hot guys making out with each other,_ it reads. Sam almost chokes. Dean actually laughs.

"Aww, sweetheart. It's cute you think this guy counts." Dean rolls his eyes, though he kind of undermines the insult when he leers at Sam a second later.

Hailey laughs. "Oh, trust me. You _both_ count. Although… we get extra points for nudity. You guys wanna try that again with a few less layers?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Dean says, reaching for the zipper on Sam’s hoodie. Sam slaps his hand down.

"Rats." Hailey gives them another of those big-eyed pouts, then clutches her camera to her chest, looking around. "I hope no one else saw you!"

"You have all these other things?" Sam asks. He's steadfastly ignoring his mortification. "The inside of a men’s restroom? A sister making out with someone twice her age?" He looks up. "How do you prove that one?"

Hailey flips through her camera, holds it up for Sam and Dean to see. It's of one of the girls over by the fire, kissing some guy who does look older, and in the foreground of the photo the guy is holding up his license. Sam presses the little plus-sign next to the screen, and the photo zooms in enough for them to make out the year "1965" in the guy's birth date. 

Dean whistles low. "Nice. Hey, what about this one? Number nine. Let's see that one."

Hailey laughs. "Uh uh! I had to _promise_ no one else would see that one until we have to turn in our results!"

Sam finds number nine and reads it: _A sister flashing everyone on the chairlift. No bras allowed!_ He wants to punch Dean's shoulder, but he's pretty sure he needs to keep his hands to himself right now or Hailey's going to end up with footage of a lot more than just _kissing_. And probably those extra points.

"That's a shame," Dean says.

"Hails!" The brunette who was talking to Brady bounces up behind Hailey and shakes her shoulders. "I saw you over here! Did you get number fifteen?" Her eyes are a little glassy as she grins at Sam and Dean.

"Sure did. And no, I'm not sharing with you!" Hailey points two fingers at Sam and Dean. "No more of that, okay? They all have to go find their own hot guys!"

The brunette whines as she turns huge, imploring eyes on them. "Aww, c'mon, please? Just a quick one. Hailey can't stop you!"

"Hmm." Dean's hand escape Sam’s grip and moves up his thigh to his hip. Sam feels Dean's fingers tuck under his belt. He shifts a little—Dean really needs to knock that off while they’re in public. "What's in it for us?"

"Well, you get to kiss this guy, for one thing." The brunette nods at Sam. "Isn't that enough?"

"God, get out of here, Tricia! No poaching!" Hailey turns and pushes her shoulder a little. Sam is starting to wonder if they might have to break up a fight right here in the middle of the packed lodge. 

He and Dean are watching the girls push each other around with increasing ferocity when two of their sorority sisters materialize next to them, both holding cameras.

"C'mon, Hailey, do it!" one of them says. 

Sam starts to hold out a hand, but it's the hand holding the gold list, and his eyes are drawn down to it and number eleven. It's not crossed out, either.

_One of the sisters with a black eye or other facial contusion._

Dean leans in when Sam chuckles. "Oh man," he says. "Fucking chicks."

This time when the so familiar scent of his brother washes over him, Sam doesn't restrain himself. There's a shriek next to them as his lips meet Dean's, but he'll leave it to the girls to work things out among themselves. He opens his fingers to let the list flutter to the floor. He has better things to do with his hand: like wrap it around Dean's neck. Push it into Dean's hair. Pull Dean closer. His brother responds in kind. 

After a quick mental thanks to sasquatches, incidental snowstorms, and horny sorority girls, Sam focuses on the here and now: his brother under his hands and mouth. He thinks he'll try the rubber band trick tonight and just hope Brady's tuned in enough to get it. But if he isn’t, maybe Sam can at least split the cash Brady’ll get from selling a photo or two to the highest Tri-Delt bidder.


End file.
